Max:I’m alive. Not murdered. Not trafficked. Still have all my kidneys. Will report back after coffee. If you call my mother I will tell Will about the time you sent all your friends a picture of his penis when you thought the curve of it was abnormal!
Timantha:Okay Nerd-Bitch, that’s how you wanna play it? Now, I hope he clubs you over your big-ass head and sends you off somewhere.
I laugh and toss the phone aside.
I roll out of bed, my feet hitting the cool hardwood floor with a thud that reminds me I’m definitely not in my overpriced Atlanta apartment anymore. The flannel shirt I begged Eli for swallows me whole, brushing just above my knees and smelling unfairly like him—earthy, fresh, clean with a side ofcome get some of this.
I shuffle toward the massive windows, parting the heavy curtain just enough to peek out. And then I see him.
Eli.
Outside.
Shirtless.
Chopping wood like an actual African deity moonlighting as a lumberjack centerfold.
His back is to me, muscles stretching and flexing with each heavy swing of the axe. Broad shoulders, that deep dip down his spine, arms that look carved from some kind of divine punishment for women.
The morning light glistens off the sweat on his back and steam rises off his heated skin in the frigid winter morning air. And Lord, help me, the massive flannel I’m wearing tightens with betrayal around my chest.
Who does that? Who chops woodthisdramatically at sunrise? Isn’t he cold? My nipples seem to think it is.
Be still my thuggish ruggish heart. Because here I am. Eyes wide. Mouth dry. Legs weak. Panties wet.
Utterly.
Completely.
Wide open for this man.
My stomach grumbles, reminding me I had healthy food for dinner last night. Which means I’m beyond starving. I make my way to the kitchen, hoping food will settle my stomach… and my libido.
Eli’s kitchen is what dreams—and Architectural Digest covers—are made of. It’s all sleek matte-black finishes, warm wood accents, and stone countertops so pristine they look almost too pretty to touch.
But they’ll live rent-free in my daydreams as the perfect stage for a feast of a different kind.
I only find the hidden fridge because I accidentally lean on the panel. When it glides open, the thing is so fully stocked it looks like he’s either preparing for the apocalypse—or hosting the world’s sexiest cooking show.
I pull out almond milk, a carton of eggs, fresh blueberries, and what appears to be hand-milled oat flour. I recognize it immediately. My grandmother always said hand-milled flour made the best pancakes and gravy.
Could he be any more perfect? Of course that’s what this man keeps on hand.
As I sift through drawers looking for a mixing bowl, I keep glancing back out the window. And wouldn’t you know it? He’s still out there. Still swinging. Still glistening. Still fine.
As good as I slept last night, and as grateful as I am he came to bring my phone, I wish he would have woken me up.
Instead? Nothing.
I must be losing my touch, because I honestly can’t remember the last time I shared space with a man that I had this much chemistry with and he didn’t at leasttryto get some. Not even a light graze. A harmless lean. A suggestive “just the tip” moment.
Just a perfectly respectful night’s sleep in a perfectly massive bed, inside a perfectly designed house… hosted by a perfectly frustrating, fine-ass man. A man who refuses to misbehave.
I shake my head as I force myself to look away. I have never wanted a man to disrespect me so badly.
I’m mixing the pancake batter when the door opens.
He’s sweaty. Chest rising and falling. Axe left outside, but thedangerstill very much intact.
